


fields of gold lie beyond

by lauribunny



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Family Angst, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fatherhood, Gen, Headcanon, Hurt No Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:29:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28118481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lauribunny/pseuds/lauribunny
Summary: In March of 1917, the Eight East Surrey regiment is reinstated in West Flanders, and Will feels a melancholic longing when the untouched beauty stirs painful remembrances.
Relationships: Tom Blake & William Schofield, William Schofield & His Children, William Schofield & Original Female Character(s), William Schofield/William Schofield's Wife
Comments: 18
Kudos: 10
Collections: places not so far-1917





	fields of gold lie beyond

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another one, here we go! I’d like to credit @thevenbluewrites for Violet once more! This fic was hard to write but I’m fairly satisfied with the end result.

March 19th, 1917

The day is warm- the slough of mud and grime that usually presides in the early spring is not present- for which Will is grateful for- they’re marching today. The Eight East Surreys have been moved from Northern France back to West Flanders, and the unforgiving slog of the season would have made the walk entirely less enjoyable- he’d only just managed to keep his socks relatively dry.

There is a certain pulse in the air he cannot describe- it is far from any sort of patriotic duty, to say the least, for such things withered with the blustering November winds. An atmosphere of contentment, of hope. The weather is decent, sure, and the breakfast rations seemed a little more substantial- which was to be expected, with fewer men to feed- but there was nothing in particular that he thought could cause such a shift in mood. 

A good lot of the other men are singing. A jaunty carol, one Will doesn’t mind much himself, though he does not consider himself a singer by any definition of the word. In his very limited stint at the boy’s choir in primary school, the conductor had chided his lack of skill, very publicly stating that he could not have carried a tune if it were nailed to him. He didn’t take much to it after that.

“If you want to find the sergeant, I know where he is! I know where he is, I know where he is. If you want to find the sergeant, I know where he is! He’s drinking all the company rum. I saw him, I saw him, drinking all the company rum.”

Will notices one voice in particular as the men sing on. The cocky, arrogant drawls of a certain Lance Corporal Thomas Blake.

He sighs. Blake has never had a talent for discretion, which is probably why they gave the lad a chevron so young.

The singing continues, and he finds himself subconsciously humming along to it. 

“If you want to find the private, I know where he is! I know where he is, I know where he is. If you want to find the private, I know where he is! He’s hanging on the old barbed wire.”

The lyric jolts him from his senses, and he almost freezes. Barbed wire. Barbed wire. It’s a song, he reminds himself. It’s an ironic little spell. But it does not feel this way, and then he’s back in Thiepval. The Boches are charging en masse, and he is firing for his life, bullets into the droves of men trying to take the trench. And eventually the raid is over, and he sits in the wallowing stew of mud and filth and rot, and he feels a dripping on his forehead. He looks up, and there are two soldiers, contorted and bleeding and mangled, their corpses woven like a tapestry along the links of the barbed wire.

And then he is back in the march, and he has bitten his lip so hard it bleeds. One foot in front of the other. 

They eventually arrive at the base camp that has been put into place, and Will almost cries when he sees the barber. The lice is almost unbearable- and he’d heard stories of men driven mad by the itching, scratching their skin so raw that the rats are turned feral with hunger at the scent of the fresh meat. He does not know if this is true, but he has absolutely no intention of finding out. 

The party disperses, and he notes that the field has not yet been taken by the ravaging nature of artillery and shells. A wondrous, almost unnatural field of flowers stretches to the horizon, and a few stray trees dot the scenery, their scarce branches budding with fresh leaves. The aroma of flowers almost overwhelms the stench of the soldiers. Almost.

He takes a deep breath. The chattering is widespread, men complaining about their aching stomachs, their aching feet, their aching heads. Will cranes his neck, the pressure from extensive wearing of his helmet taking its toll. He slips it off, and the slight relief is a welcoming feeling. 

He feels drawn to the flowers, to this nature left untouched by the savagery of the war, of the insatiable violence. He does not consider the barber or a delousing as his prime concern any longer- instead making his way down to the edge of the field, to a weathered tree just on the cusp. 

He unbuttons his epaulets, and lets his pack and netting slip from his shoulders. He sets his helmet and rifle down alongside them at the trunk of the tree, and he regards the vast expanse of wild before him, the pale blue sky a great contrast to the warm colours that spanned his eye line.

He stands in contemplative silence. The majority of the field consists of poppies- their blood red petals unsettling him slightly. He recalls a poem written by some Canadian medic he’d read not too long ago- something about poppies growing in Flanders. He does not recall the logistics, though if he remembers correctly, the poet had since perished. He does not know how to feel about that.

The wind rustles the flowers gently, and he notes the striking yellow colour that also heavily occupies the stretch. He kneels to take a closer look, and he feels his stomach churn, his breathing halt.

Marigolds.

He reaches out to touch the bright flowers, his fingertips grazing the striking petals. A soft, sweet, delicate flower. Untouched by the misery of war, blissfully ignorant of the destruction being wrought upon its floral comrades elsewhere in Belgium and France. 

Marigold. He thinks of his eldest daughter, her soft midnight hair, her wild chocolate eyes. He remembers the day she was born, how he couldn’t have fathomed how much he could’ve loved somebody until she was placed into his arms. Though her passive infancy had turned into a turbulent toddlerhood, she was so innocent, so pure, so fierce and untamed and so throughly filled with a burning curiosity, a fiery lust for life.

He pulls the golden flower from the earth, watching the small petals fight against the breeze. And it is still again, and he sits and watches it, as if it is some sort of abstract. As if observing it will somehow transform it into his own Marigold. The day he first left them, she was two- it was October of 1915, two months exactly before her third birthday. She had asked if he would finish the book he was reading to her that night.

He wondered if Vi ever finished it with her. He presumed so, but he did not know for certain. She hadn’t brought it up when he came home for his leave.

And as if to taunt him, a small honeybee buzzes by, settling on the marigold he has picked for himself. 

A goddamned honeybee sending him over the edge. It’s almost laughable.

Clarice loved her bees. He remembers how his youngest would sit in the garden in the backyard, watching as the bees buzzed about the flowers they’d planted together. She adored bees. In his downtime, when the world was still and the bookshop wasn’t open, it was the silence in which he’d find himself with her. He remembers the wonder in her eyes as the striped insects buzzed about the flora, landing from flower to flower, and occasionally her outstretched hand. Though it had made him anxious at first, Clarey had a way with the bees. She’d never been stung.

He lets the flower fall from his grasp. He does not trust he has the same abilities as his daughter in that respect. It’s almost cruel, how the nature has presented itself in this way. And he feels anger as he regards the field full of marigolds, most likely with a whole host of other bees mingling about the yellow forms. 

He stands up, feeling bitter and angry, grief clouding his better judgement. It was a field, nothing more. Yet it was eliciting something so profoundly distressing he could not help but want to scream. He fishes his tobacco tin from his breast pocket, flipping it open and feeling the slight resolve from the worn pictures of his family. His daughters smile up at him. Will recalls that the picture was taken on Goldie’s birthday- Violet had sent it to him in the mail, and he’d received it in January, almost a month past it. She is four now, he reminds himself. She has an arm wrapped around her younger sister’s shoulder, their expressions so free of the weariness he has seen dragging down the men of the Eighth East Surrey’s. He looks up to the field, and then back again at his children’s sweet faces. The last time he had been with them, back in August of the year prior, he’d despised his time with them. He spent the entirety wallowing in the grief that would come from parting from them again, the possibility that they’d never see him after the fact a sort of pain he could couldn’t make sense of. And their wailing screams at the train station, how his parents had to drag them away when Violet’s motherly touch was not enough for their thrashing desperation, still haunted him in the night. The way they begged him to stay, how Clarey simply collapsed into a trembling heap at his feet, and how Goldie viciously tried to pull him away from the platform by the coat of his uniform, yanking so hard he was afraid he would topple onto her. He remembers the betrayal in their weepy eyes as he pulled away from the station. How he would never be able to explain to them how he wished he’d never left them to begin with.

He flips over the picture of his wife, when he is caught off guard by a familiar voice. He slips the photos back into the tin, and turns to greet his friend.

“Oi, what’re you doing all the way out here? I thought you’d be at delousing, since that’s all you’ve been bloody griping about for the past few weeks.” Blake queries, stomping down towards him. His mouth is half full- there’s two hearty pieces of bread in his grip.

“Just thought I’d admire the scenery while I could.” He replies meekly, eyeing the extra bread. Blake gives him a puzzled look, before making the connection, and handing it to him. It’s somewhat stale, but it is miles better than he anticipated it being, and he eats it greedily.

“Never took you much for a flower sort of bloke, if I’m being honest. But I’m surprised all the time, I suppose.” Blake states, taking another bite of his bread. “You sure do spend an awful lot of time looking at that damn tin, I must say.”

Will feels his cheeks burn. It’s an innocent enough statement- and he knows most men would be proud to boast of their families, but he does not have the strength nor energy to delve into the topic. He does not think he’d be able to do it without collapsing like a basket case.

“Just some memories of home.” He explains, feeling a lump in his throat as he takes another bite of bread. The screams of his daughters echo in his ears. It feels like broken glass as he swallows. 

“Ah, I won’t pry. Though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious. We’ve known each other how long, Lance Corporal? And I know just about squat about you.” Blake shrugs, before giving him a slight side eye.

“There isn’t much to know. I’m not as interesting as you think I am.” He tucks the tobacco tin back into his pocket, and slips his pack and netting back onto his shoulders, fastening his epaulets. He secures his helmet back in place, grimacing slightly as the familiar strain returns to the base of his neck, yet he ignores it, taking the last bite of his bread as he slings his rifle over his shoulder.

“That so? I feel like there’s a lot you’re not telling me.” Blake counters, and Will suppresses a groan. How the hell did this boy get a chevron?

“What do you want to know?” Will snaps, and Blake raises his hands defensively.

“Easy, soldier. Just trying to make conversation.” He raises an eyebrow, and Will sighs, inciting Blake to chuckle.

“I think I need an even bigger pest deloused, Lance Corporal.” Will says as he looks back over his shoulder, smiling softly. 

“Aye, but it’ll take a whole lot more than a barber to take this bug off your back.” Blake responds, making his way after him. 

“T’would appear so. I suppose I can make do for now.” Will laughs as his friend catches up to him, clapping his back.

“You are one odd duck, Lance Corporal Schofield.”

The two comrades walk off to the delousing station, and Will allows the field filled with marigolds and honeybees to fade into the distance behind him. 

He does not want to look back on it again.

**Author's Note:**

> Some cool history and other notes- the Eight East Surreys were constantly being moved about Northern France and West Flanders, so it’s entirely plausible something of this sort could have occurred! And marigolds do grow alongside poppies in Flanders- more specifically corn marigolds! The song the soldiers are singing is called Hanging on the Old Barbed Wire- it’s actually kind of a bop, I’m not even going to lie
> 
> also- the poem that Scho is referring to is In Flanders Field, by John McCrae, which was originally published in 1915, and popularized the poppy as a symbol of the Great War. He feels uncomfortable because he thinks the poet has perished- but McCrae doesn't die until January of 1918, almost an entire year later. He's misremembering.


End file.
